FATIMA FANTASY (1951)

It’s only recently that it’s struck me how bizarre the statue of Our Lady of Fatima looks. Just how does that minimal  crown stay there with that awful tilt? It seems to defy gravity. Or could it be Mary heading a goal in World Cup? But I have to admit that, fifty years ago, I got caught up in the great swirl of euphoria, hysteria of the early 1950s when this new devotion of Our Lady of Fatima  crashed into the Australian scene with this diminutive statue beginning a nationwide triumph.

It was a great story. The three children tending sheep in those barren hills in northern Portugal were suddenly stunned to see a beautiful lady hovering above a holm oak tree. This was the first of six apparitions of Mary, the mother of Jesus, to these simple illiterate children. She had a message for them to spread to the world!! It was an appeal for prayer and penance, with specific focus on saying the rosary. Incredible as it seems these children confronted the parish priest and were grilled by other authorities. On the 13th of those five months Mary appeared and the ragged few attracted soon grew into crowds. At one stage they were kidnapped! On the last occasion, in October, there was a huge crowd and apparently a spectacular miracle when the "sun stood still." Mary made a spectacular prediction that "Russia would be converted." Given that this was in 1917 when the Communist revolution was still reverberating and not a sure success, this was indeed bizarre.

This was but one of a string of apparitions in the 19th century in France, Belgium, Ireland and other European countries. Mostly, she appeared to children and with a common message about sin, penance, repentence. For a Marist Brother, like me, it was a rich vein of lessons. If you were directed to give one lesson a week on Mary, it was always a struggle to find material. Stories that you could spin out over the months was a godsend.

In context, we see now how Mariology ( Catholic theology on Mary) reached dizzying heights (or crazy depths) in that era. With the declaration of the dogma of Mary’s Assumption in 1954 astounding our “Separated Brethren.” But worse was to follow when we were on the brink of announcing the ultimate title, Mary, Mediatrix of All Graces and so giving Jesus a nudge from centre stage. (Thankfully, Vatican 2 did restore some  balance and sanity!)

But still there is no denying the strong tradition in the Catholic Church of popular devotion to Mary the mother of Jesus. It can take a wide ranges of expression. From small wayside shrines where folk will pause for a prayer to magnificent  processions and a certain accompanying hysteria that somehow offends more phlegmatic types. And while some might sniff at the 'superstition' and even shades of paganism I'm convinced there is often deep faith that sustains and enriches life, specially of poor people. And can you blame them. Over the centuries, some twisted theology, apparently ignorant of the GOOD News, had morphed Jesus, the Good Shepherd, the story teller of such 'shocking' parables as the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, and had challenged the upholders of the Law with "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone", Yes this Jesus had become the stern, forbidding Judge.
(God deliver us from fundamentalists of any strip.) But you cant bottle the Spirit and "she" will find ways to God's mercy, even if it is a mother who can twist the arm of her implacable son!!!

In my early years of teaching, being very much of the culture when were all out to "get souls into heaven." I was sheep- dogging, young souls into heaven and offering an iron clad guarantee. It was all so easy.


Six Class 1958 Parramatta

 all you had to do was : attend Mass on 9 FIRST FRIDAYS( had to be consecutive)  and the 5 FIRST SATURDAYS. (a bargain price entry into eternity.) I still have slides showing sixty sixth class boys adding their stars to the impressive posters at the back of the classroom). And it was a few years before, that the Brothers at Parramatta felt the first hot breeze of high charged devotion, blowing into Sydney.

Around September 1951 Melbourne Catholic Church, under their Irish chieftain. Daniel Mannix scored a coup over its Sydney rivals. With great éclat they welcomed the tilting statue of Fatima, followed by a triumphal, ecstatic procession around the state, something like the Olympic Torch.  There were reverberations in Sydney as the good Catholics had high hopes of a similar triumph. But, our Cardinal Gilroy of the smiling teeth, and deadly rival of Dan, made it be known that we would not be drawn into second place. Little did he know that his own Fifth Column of monsignorial rank was plotting sabotage.

Mary entered by the back door. Through Parramatta. In fact the western approaches were very porous to such an incursion. And we Brothers were thrust into some brief glare. Roused from our beds in near darkness, we stumbled up the road to the mighty bastion of the Parra Mercies to find “She” had arrived and was being escorted to an outdoor shrine. I was press ganged into being a bearer of this bier, decorated with flowers with Mary waving aloft.  Not that I minded at all. What an honour and surely it would mean a photo in the Catholic Weekly. Actually, a press clampdown denied me that little blaze of glory. Br Ethelred with his cultured voice was leading the rosary from a high balcony while we circled the front drive of Our Lady of Mercy College, and onto the makeshift shrine. Crowds had appeared from nowhere and soon we were battling to stand our ground. After a mere thirty minutes, there was some commotion. The next gang of devotees from a neighbouring parish had already arrived and were ready for the swap. A  certain hysteria broke out as the statue moved down the drive. I was shocked at the women who were souveniring some of the drapes! As we handed over the precious statue, I noted a very irascible Monsignor McGovern, obviously one of the conspirators, who had orchestrated this snatch. Little did I know he would be a terror as our parish priest of Parramatta when I returned seven years later.



Parra boys at Canberra War Memorial Canberra

 Strange forces were at work. It seemed there was no stifling of the Spirit. Even our potentate, Cardinal Gilroy was undermined and losing much ground. Graciously, but tardily he announced there would be a special service and procession around St. Mary’s Cathedral in the evening. He knew there would be mayhem if an open invitation was offered. Very cleverly he invited only clergy and religious to the cathedral and subsequent procession around the grounds. The madding mobs could get no closer than Hyde Park. Through a crazy mishap I almost joined the Cardinal as his aide- de- camp that night.

Of course, all the Parra Brothers answered the call. Transport was a real problem as we owned no car. The good Mrs.Goodsell, whose husband ran the local garbage collection….and maybe nightsoil as well…was a fan of Br. Ethelred and so her Humber Super Snipe was at our disposal. That was for the senior Brothers. For us ‘ young guns’ there was a battered ute. I recall six of us crammed in the back, a very tight fit as we were in soutanes and cloaks. We were in high spirits as it was a rare night out as we hurtled down Parramatta road.  I recall parking down a back street and bustling along to the front steps with Cardinal Moran glaring imperiously at those pesky Marists from his high pedestal. After all, with imperial might he had expelled us from St Mary’s after some twenty years and installed his own Irish Christian brothers!



St. Mary's Cathedal in Festival of Lights 2010

 Almost at the door I realised I had left my cloak behind. I needed it as an obligatory wedding garment. I scooted back to fetch it. It must have been further away than I realised. By the time I returned and had raced up that long flight of steps and entered the front door much had happened. Shocked at the near empty cathedral I saw the last section of the royal retinue, with the cardinal way aft, disappearing through the eastern door. Panic grabbed me as I flew down the aisle and without genuflecting dashed out the door. The Cardinal was some twenty paces away. Where were the Brothers?  I pelted down the lawn fringe and stopped almost opposite the top officials to get my bearings. The Cardinal was most gracious. He must have been “moved” by this near distressed young Brother, obviously lost and abandoned. With one of his most dazzling smiles he invited me :”Brother come and join me!”  All I could think of in a split second was “What would the monks say when they saw me in the royal entourage?” In total disarray and utter lack of appreciation I raced on. Past all the surpliced priests, all the De La Salle Brother, Christian Brothers….can’t recall any nuns. Eventually I was among familiar faces and dress. I plunged in, hoping that no one asked questions later. I often chastise myself for being so “boorish” but at that stage I had not developed people skills that would have beguiled even Cardinals.

PS.  Only a few years later, while teaching at Innisfail in North Queensland, a similar event hit the sugar town. The Marian revolution was roaring on. In the USA, a remarkable Fr Peyton was energising Catholic with his Rosary campaign and the catchy motto of THE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER. Australia succumbed willingly to this crusade. Maybe, it was the Catholic riposte to Billy Graham’s world crusade which electrified the big cities like Sydney and had thousands moving down the aisles of the huge crowds and MAKING A DECISION FOR CHRIST.

It was a whistle stop tour for the dynamic Fr Peyton. A large catholic crown assembled outside the convent school on the hill as the church would not cope. We sang hymns, joined Fr. Peyton in the rosary and sang more hymns. Then the preacher made his powerful appeal to us. Very emotional, there were tears in his eyes and in his voice. Certainly, we were moved. I’ll bet the families around Goondi, Daradgee, Mundoo, South Johnson, Mourilyan all dug out their beads and made the family rosary a priority. Luckily, TV hadn’t hit the country at that stage and so there was little competition.

I recall meeting this remarkable priest after the event on the hill. In fact the Sisters and Brothers were privileged. It was most unusual and quite moving. He took me by the hands, looked so profoundly with tears in his eyes and encouraged me to carry the message forward. And of course I did, with conviction.

Some 50-60 years later I certainly have a new perspective. Of the many reported apparitions I have serious doubts. There's little doubt that for so many good and devotional people they provided a rich strain of their spirituality. I have serious concerns about the messages passed. There seems so little that is connected with the Good News and Jesus message of hope and resurrection. But one experience stands out. I spent two- three days in Lourdes when Mary appeared to Bernadette. Again, an extraordinary, incredible story. And sure there is always the give about commercialisation of "pious objects" of all kinds being hawked in the town and outside the "sacred prescincts". But what completely bowled me over was the transparent faith of thousands of pilgrims, and the untold love and care for the suffering. Yes, God was here. Yes, Mary as mother moved among the crowds in giving solace and hope!

Over that time too, there has been a revolution in study of Mary and her role in the Church. With the deep study of scripture we can now meet a more authentic Mary. Her life including living under oppression, fleeing as a refugee to Egypt, a mother who witnessed the death of her son as a criminal, all this has made her a symbol for women who struggle around the world.  In countries in Latin America she has become a rallying centre for oppressed women, who have lost sons in the struggle  for social justice, as in El Salvador, Guatamala, Argentina.  It's that strangest of Madonnas, Our Lady of Guadalupe that draws so many. The story of that poor native Mexican peasant, JuanDiego, wy back in 1531, who met a beautiful lady with a message for the bishop is so incredible as to be believable to those open to mystery, has fired generations of people yearning for justice.

 And best of all, it's women theologians who can dispense with so much male-centred and patriarchal overtones and reveal such a marvellous woman with a  mission as mother of Jesus. Why, we are now striving to bring about a Marian Church , whick is less judgmental, legalistic, authoritative, punitive and more compassionate, inclusive, forgiving, welcoming with motherly overtones. Why. even Pope John Paul 2 insisted we needed a more Marian church for today. The journey has barely begun and who  knows how long before there is any kind of  balance in a Church where women still have so little power and who have suffered centuries of being voiceless.

KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN (1994)

 



 In 1954 I turned 21. It was a memorable year in many ways. It was to be a great mix of drama, challenge, achievement, daring and nose-to-the-grindstone. Strangely enough there wasn't any wild celebraton that I had reached my voting age or 'warrior status" - as a volunteer to fight for "king and country". In fact it was such a modest celebration that I can't recall any detail.  But there is a haunting memory and  a sour taste has lingered over the years, having been declared a near outlaw in the little sugar town of Innisfail.

I had ridden out my stormy first year as teacher of the all-important Scholarship, with commendable results. Folk in NSW would not understand how pivotal this public exam was for the boys of eighth grade in the Sunshine state. Getting a scholarship meant that your secondary education was free. It was a real bonanza for our struggling school. A pot of gold, 20 pounds in all went to the school and not the parents. In our case this was double the paltry fees we were charging and which many people ignored. I could attribute my success to my old Master, Br Ronald who had advised me to find the best teacher in town and learn from him. So, it was I became friends of Hughie McCarthy, an old pro, principal to the East Innisfail State school and whose class topped the town each year. An old CBC Nudgie boy he was so gracious and helpful. I have to admit, however, that I was not going to use his unrelenting cramming. I wanted to enjoy teaching by making it interesting and expanding the students’ activities and horizons. And so we did indulge in music, art,  leatherwork and revelled in poetry.



GRADE 8 - Mike - 3 from L back row

 The following year began disastrously. Asian flu clobbered our little town and I was one of the casualties. In fact it was almost epidemic proportions, as reported by the Sydney Sun with blaring headlines ASIAN FLU WIPES OUT NORTH QUEENSLAND TOWN. The first I knew of it was waking in the night and feeling violently ill. I was soon perched over a wash basin and hoicking up the previous day’s and week’s meals, to the stage where the green bile had exhausted, to be followed by dry retching. Br. Colgan must have contacted Doc Cotter, a local legend and I was whisked away to hospital just the other side of the hill and with a glorious view along the Johnson river.

It was there that I learnt a great truth. It was not the police chief, the magistrate, the bank manager, the parish priest or minister that was the most feared, infallible and most powerful person in the town. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, MATRON BROWN. She really was the arbiter of death and life. Luckily for me she was a Catholic and I was this pathetic, young, struggling Brother. Hence I found myself in a sort of lordly splendour in the corner room with views all round and with aura in the air. It seemed to me that nurses, whose fear of the matron was absolute, would enter on tip toe and barely raise their voice as they assisted. All was hushed. And of course, I was so proper and distant. No glimmerings of romance here.



Mike king of crocs 40+ years later.



I don’t recall what awful cocktails of medicines they plied me with. I certainly was so crook and could have died. Mostly,  from shame and embarrassment. A Brother was not supposed get sick and scarper off and leave his depleted staff battling along with extra classes. Of course, it was decades before replacement teachers appeared. And the general rule was that the “boss” or principal taught a full load anyway. All those pesky jobs, like school accounts for instance, were done in spare time, over the weekend. The fact that we boasted only 130  students  in our school didn’t make it any easier for the primary teachers, who already were saddled with double classes. This weighed mightily on my mind.

I schemed to escape. Blessedly, the worst of the nausea and sickness had ameliorated but I knew I was still sick and should not try to hasten the process of recovery. There was a struggle going on: wisdom versus duty. I decided to act…stupidly, as it turned out. On the matrons daily sweeps I would brighten and explain how much better I was feeling and appreciated the wonderful treatment in her hospital. I knew she wasn’t convinced. But I wore her down. After some 3-4 days she relented. Yes, I could go home.

But how to get back home when all were in school? I suddenly thought of our friendly chemist, another legend, Gordon Rothnie, whose boys attended our school. Soon enough, Gordon is pulling into the driveway in his big Chev and I’m making a bold display of striding down to meet him, aware that the hawk eyes of the matron were peering down. And so I returned home. Joy all around. Next day, I was stalking the poop deck of the classroom. It didn’t last long. By mid morning I had collapsed and had to stagger down the hill to our bungalow. It was a week before I was strong enough to take on a full days teaching. I just hoped matron never found out.

FNQ Brothers mid 1950s

In 1954 there had been a seismic shift in the composition of our community of four Brothers. The oldest, in his early forties at least had gone south at the end of 1953. We’d lost Urby,  a remarkable monk, top tennis player, fine gymnast, uncanny card player, a whiz at cryptic crosswords and a committed and persistent teacher who made sure the kids learnt. In fact, his feat of churning through 100 chapters of Jones’ French Grammar (the driest, most soulless book ever printed) in just one year, still must stand as a record in dour teaching. He never lost his cool, a placid man, and with a twinkle he would share the latest jokes he’d culled from the latest Readers’ Digest. We would miss his quiet presence. Astoundingly we waved him farewell from atop Mount Fox, outside Ingham as we watched that wondrous snake of lights glide through the darkening day as the Sunlander “sped” south. At that stage we were belting back north to beat the wet season after adventures at Valley of Lagoons.

The contrast in his replacement could not have been more dramatic. Gil Larkin, my classmate, was a tearaway, a firebrand who would set our sedate community on its head. Gil had a great appetite for life and he was in a hurry to embrace it. Now, that was not easy for a Brother in those days of our “fortress Church”. (Personally I preferred the alternative title “Ghetto Church”) Of course this was a decade before the great revolution of Vatican 2, threw open the windows and gates and the Catholic Church welcomed the world. In those days of regimented routine we lived in a MONASTERY…even though we were but another bungalow in Owen St.  A tough daily program that saw us leaping from our sweaty beds at 5.30am and pushing through a punishing days teaching, followed by prayers at 5.00pm and after dinner, two solid hours of study with the fans whirring to give some relief. Night prayer followed at 9.30pm and bed followed in silence.

 Weekends saw some let up. Saturday afternoon was the great escape. Sunday still included two Masses, study and the evening topped with 7.30 Rosary and Benediction.  Around 8.30pm we’d cluster around the radio and enjoy some wonderful BBC stuff. I often wonder ‘how did we ever do it?’

Gil certainly chafed against the bit. Many evenings he was asleep at his desk and gentle snores battling with the whirr of the fans. But he strove mightily, for a while. Thankfully he replaced me in the Brothers’ Cricket Competition- after my lacklustre year. With his uncanny eye he certainly could clout a ball and as a medium pace bowler he could inflict some damage.

The boss- Colgan and home

But he needed more outlets for his restless energy. After a month or two he “blew”. After school he would disappear and engage in harmless activities, visiting families (which was verboten according to the sacred RULE) playing with the kids, fishing up at Dinner Creek. Weekends became full of fun for him. The Boss didn’t know where he was or what he was up to and fretted. A top priority for him was to learn to drive. Luckily, Colin Wieland was in his class and so very soon the local Ford dealers were friends of Gil. In no time he had his licence and also the “licence” to range far and wide. He became well known in town and was a hero to the boys.

Meanwhile, I, as a sober-sided, unimaginative, unadventurous type enjoyed his escapades from a distance but toed that hard line pretty closely. Mid year his “empire” nearly came crashing down. As the sports master and coach he followed the local football very closely. This extremely wet day he went to Babinda with the team. Apparently, there was not a complement and Gil donned the Innisfail colours. Again, verboten.  Now, he was a fair footballer, but he boasted a royal lineage. His sister had married the Australian Rugby League test halfback, Clem Kennedy. In fact Gil used to wear the hero’s cast off NO 7 of the Green and Gold. Kids were sure he had played for Australia!

That night as we were munching on the stew that I had cooked, I looked across at my mate Gil and noted a certain purple welt around the eye. In a harmless question, I scored:

“Gee it must have been pretty rough up there at Babinda today Gil”.

He gave me a murderous look and kept eating. The boss didn’t seem to notice it!

Elwyn and Des on Innisfail golf course

Gil was kind to me and catapulted me into a great challenge. In fact, without him I would not have even considered the notion of getting a licence to drive. But I needed one for the coming event. My mother was flying to Innisfail as a 21^st birthday present, quite some time after the modest celebration we had. In fact, I’m not sure that we even had a birthday cake with 21 candles. Again, as part of that “monastic” culture when we shunned that wicked world, such celebrations were considered trivial by some.  But mum was coming and I was going to need a licence. Thanks to my big-hearted eldest brother, Peter, she was committed to fly those 1500 miles, a feat, that for her would rival The Southern Cross’ trans Pacific epic. In fact I still can’t believe that she would succumb to Peter’s promises, blandishments, threats to board that DC3 – or Biscuit Bomber as it was called in WW2.  A family anecdote reveals that she near perished as she crossed a low bridge at Parsley Bay in Sydney in her courting days. Dad obligingly carried her in a swoon to safety.

But there was another source of pressure- a wonderful bunch of friends, from around the Daradgee area: the Davis, Treston and Ryan families. She had met them at Mittagong when her son David and their sons had become Marist Brothers on July 2^nd. They had persuaded this lady with the paranoiac fear of heights, to respond to their invitation and fly to Innisfail.

Johnny Dowling a champ.

To prepare for the coming event, Gil took me in hand to teach me to drive. Of course, the Brothers did not own a car. One good bicycle was our sole mode of transport. But Gil was equal to the challenge. Borrowing cards seems never to have worried him. Nobody would believe me when I tell them that we rocked up to the priests’ residence and conned that gentle Irish PP to lend us his Plymouth one Saturday afternoon. We enjoyed a romp around the cane farms, popping in to his friends for tea and scones and pushing on. We did have a slight accident that needed some remedial work on those flash chrome strips on the side, but Fr. Hogan was not unduly worried. I had a second lesson, borrowing a car from our neighbour, Tom Dowling just up the street in the house which had served as our residence before we moved to slightly better accommodation.

The Dowlings were a great family. Tom himself, always impeccably dressed, was one of those old stylish proprietors of Menswear store in the main street where he would “perform” in his genial way to invite, entice customers into his shop. His wife Josey, was a wonderful mum, so kind and a beacon of  good sense and generosity. The Brothers enjoyed her scrumptious cakes. Their family boasted a Marist Brother, Tom, my vintage, who was teaching in Sydney at the time. Johnny was in our school and had three lovely sisters. Dad’s snappy little Ford Consul was more manageable than the Father Hogan’s Plymouth and I made better progress. I knew I needed more lessons to feel competent and comfortable.

That timetable was blown away when Gil stormed in one afternoon around 4 and yelled:

“Des, get ready, we’re going to get you a test drive.”

“Fair go Gil, I’m not ready yet.”

“No, you’ve got to come NOW, you won’t get another chance like this. That bugger, Sergeant Smith (a terror to both the crim and ordinary god- fearing folk) has gone to Cairns and we must grab our chance.”

I was most uncomfortable but he was unstoppable. Within ten minutes I’m in my clerical regalia and Gil is driving me to the Police Station. I felt anything but confident but climbed the stairs in this large, weather board building. I entered the reception with its counter and lots of activity from both sides. I stopped dead in my tracks; the “horror” was there.

“Yeah, what do you want?” He spoke raspingly, obviously anti-catholic and riled even more at some whippet like me dressed up in that absurd dog-collar.

“Sergeant” I said with some forced reverence and confidence, “I’d like to take a test drive for a licence.”

He glared at me.

“Right” he spat. “Constable Walsh, you over there. Give this man a thorough test. No cutting corners. Try him in all situations and make sure he passes our standard”.

Without showing it, my heart sank. I knew it was impossible but I had to go through with it. As we crossed the road to the Consul I tried to engage him in friendly fashion. No go. I felt doomed. Now, Gil had slipped into the back seat as a sort of co- pilot. Walsh didn’t object.

“OK, take it away down the street and turn left into the river parade.”

There was just the slightest jolt as we moved off. Slipped it into second and took the corner carefully enough. The engine seemed to roar and Gil kicked me in the back, surreptitiously of course. Into third and we proceed for a few hundred yards.

“Now, turn up left, up the hill and stop. I want to try you in hill starts.” I quailed. I’m not even sure we practised this in my two lessons. So, I stopped and applied the handbrake and let it idle with my foot on the clutch.

“Now, take it easy and slowly move off”.

Now, I would prefer to forget what happened over the next several minutes. In fact nightmares are made of such stuff. I certainly came to understand the term “kangarooing”. I recall Gil jumping up and down in the rear vision window and gesticulating wildly. Certainly, there was much jerking and stopping. The copper was so polite…and understanding.

“How about trying it again?”

Ernie, Ivo and Errol with Des in 2006

Eventually, we jolted up that hill. Sweat was pouring from me and my nerves were shot.

“Turn left and when we get to the shopping centre I want you to reverse park.’

This manoeuvre consists of turning into the middle of the road and then backing up. By God’s good grace there was a lull in the normal traffic and so I turned smoothly enough, but much too far. As I paused before engaging the reverse, one of our prized students, oblivious of his danger was gliding by at our rear. With a jerk I’m reversing, much too fast. With alarm, John Rothnie pedalled furiously and barely escaped demolition. We hit the kerb harder that normal. I now knew that the whole venture was wrecked.

I continued on around the corner and pulled up in front of “cop shop” again. We stepped out. Even Gil looked defeated. Then some inspiration hit me.

“Well, I didn’t do very well did I?’

“No, you didn’t Brother”. That surprised me. He must be an ex students, probably of the Christian Brothers who ran a great system of schools all over the state. I decided to plead.

“You know, my mum is coming up from Sydney and I really need that licence.”

Walshie considered for a moment, looked across to see that the Horror was not in view.

“Well, I tell you what, I’ll give you the licence but I’ve got some serious advice.

HAVE PLENTY OF PRACTICE AND KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN.

SIX BILLION AND STILL COUNTING.

SIX BILLION AND STILL COUNTING.

My dad didn’t tell us boys- Peter, Mark, Terry, David, Denis many stories. But the few he did made a great impression on me.

There was one that gave me such a lift.  Dad must have been caught up in the block buster books of the time, Beau Geste, Beau Sabreur and a bunch others by the star author, C.P Wren. I was thrilled by the 1939 movie production of Beau Geste, such a “rattling good yarn”. The fact that dad had made me one of the characters in the book in his story telling,  and now I could see myself on screen blew my ego to enormous proportions. Yes, it was ME, Digby, who fired those warning shots at the oncoming relief column to Fort Zinderneuf which had been wiped out with me the only surviving French foreign Legionnaire. I was able to carry out my elder brother’s wish of a “Vikings’ funeral’ when I set the fort aflame, blew a last bugle tribute before disappearing over the back wall and escaping to find my way back to the family home in England.  Fantastic.  Did my dad think I was that much of a hero?

I was certainly fired with a passionate interest in story which would carry right through my life. Now, in our simple two bedroom bungalow at Meadowbank books were pretty scarce. In fact I was impressed by a series called the MASTERFUL MONK, a wonderful gift to dad from his eldest sister, Anastatia, or Sr. Mary Honorine. Where on earth she could have got the money to purchase such a prize still has me wondering. The nuns generally were even poorer than the Brothers!

It was at school that the interest gathered momentum. The most pleasant part of a generally dull and anxious day was when Brother Wilbred or Salvius oar Firmus would take down the boys’ novel for some serial reading. It was generally used as a “carrot” to induce better behaviour and it was like a clap of thunder when a scowling teacher would announce:

 “Well, we wont be having our story today.”

 But over the years we frolicked in that weird world of Toad and Badger in ‘Wind in the Willows’ or strode the poop deck with peg-legged cut-throated Captain Kidd, or revelled in the fantastic freedom of those three castaway boys in ‘Coral Island’.

There was even a little trading among the boys. Biggles was our ultimate hero in Captain W.E Johns series. Along with Ginger and Algy we grew wings and engaged in dog fights with the Huns and thrilled to so many nail biting adventures in Egypt or the Amazon. It was a fantastic boys’ world we lived in. We couldn’t believe it when Biggles was finally killed. How could this be? But in BIGGLES FAILS TO RETURN our worst nightmares were realised. Or were they? Little did we know of the wondrous resuscitative powers of the author. Yes, he did returns and our world tilted back into normal angle again.

My appetite was not easily slaked. It was my mate Bobby Smiley, just up the street, who introduced me to Cottrell’s Library in

Rowe Street

, Eastwood.  But there was a catch to borrowing from this treasure house. You had to pay. So, was it a “tray”- thruppence or three pence or was it a ‘zac’ or sixpence to borrow a book? In any case that cost burnt a hole in any finances and we Murphs were poor. I supposed my mushy-hearted mum was worn down by my wails and surrendered enough to keep me content and at bay. Today, I just can’t get over the marvellous resource that local libraries have become. And it’s all FREE.

At  Mittagong, in our high school years, there was a small glass plated cabinet or class ‘library’. It was generally locked up.  However, access was not all that difficult and I reckon I took good advantage of that. I seem to remember that we enjoyed serial readings in lower secondary as well. In fact, one book made such an impression on me that I vowed to share it if ever I became a teacher. It was “With Morgan on the Main’. More later.

With the broadening of literature in final years the study of novels became an important aspect. You tended to ‘borrow’ the set book that other classes were studying- a most pleasant way to lend books. ‘Captains Courageous’ and ‘We of the Never Never’ were such fare. I was not all that thrilled when we got this immense but certainly ‘lightweight’ Charles Dickens’ classic PICKWICK PAPERS to study in Leaving Certificate. But I did get to like it and romp along with all the entertaining escapades that had been  features in the TIMES of London as weekly entertainment.

As a new and energetic teacher I tried to integrate much enrichment into a highly structured school day where the emphasis was on “getting results” especially in public examinations. Music, both singing and appreciation found its place. In fact, many years later, the wife of one of my friends surprised me when she revealed that she would hear John singing away and ask

“Where did you learn that song?”

His reply “Des taught us those songs at school.”

Now I would have to admit that the accent was on enjoying the songs and the concert items that followed. We would perform in the impressive Shire Hall with a certain bravura. On Saint Pat’s Day the bracket of songs had to be Irish of course. Our Irish Augustinian priests would mist up when the boys sang “Oft in the Stilly Night” or “The Kerry Dance”.  Now I did not possess a baton but I was rather a flourishing conductor. The real truth of my expertise with choirs emerged some years later when I joined battle with some dozen other Marist schools in Sydney. I never once made it to the finals in Sydney Town Hall.

Oh, yes, and there were the stories. Following a great tradition I loved reading a wide range of novels. In fact I discovered WITH MORGAN ON THE MAIN. I realised then how desperately anti-catholic it was when the British buccaneers used Spanish monks and nuns as human shields as they stormed some Caribbean  treasure city to rape and pillage with such despicable gusto!! I had to expurgate and censor on the trot. It was decades later, that  Ettore Brunello, a prosperous Dentist, met me and said

“Remember that book about pirates Brother? That is one of my best books ever.”

It was in teaching Religion, or Religious Instruction that I attempted to make best use of telling stories. In truth, there were very few books to assist teachers. The staple fare was thirty minutes on Catechism, explanation and rote learning and another thirsty minutes around midday for Doctrine!! I can weep when I think of the unrelenting boredom and later rejection that accompanies this brainless, but ‘hallowed’ approach. So, stories did at least give some interest. I scanned and garnered as many as I could from all sorts of sources to add some point and understanding.

Later, I would develop my own stories, being creative to weave around a particular topic to throw light and situate in the students’ world. Very strange that it never did strike me this was the way of the master genius of story tellers- Jesus.  I’m still astounded at the power of his THE LOST SON, THE GOOD SAMARITAN, THE UNGRATEFUL SERVANT and so many more that continue to amaze with the mystery that they reveal.

It was in the late 70s that I ‘met’ a charismatic storyteller who was to impact so powerfully on my spirituality. He was a smiling, engaging Jesuit from India, Tony de Mellow SJ. His was a gentle prophet leading into a world of great acceptance and understanding of all faiths and people.  He also led me to a commitment to contemplative prayer. He was a rare combination- a mix of Asian and European, Indian and Portuguese who could draw from a huge range of resources so easily. His stories come from Buddhist, Muslim, Sufi, Jewish, Christian sources. He has a ‘wicked’ sense of humour as well and will merrily prick the preposterous posing of powerful people, be they Imans, Rabbis, priests and even the pope! He’s really like a court jester. Sadly and stupidly in my opinion, Rome decided to corral him at a late stage and on certain book shelves he was taken into custody. He followed my other hero, Teilhard de Chardin. But I’d feel confident that he’s still cracking jokes ‘up there’ and heaven forbid there are any humourless curia types as company.

All this peaked when I chose a topic for my major paper in the Masters’ course I followed at Fordham University in New York. My choice flowed naturally from this long love of story and very directly from the Scripture course I had followed MARK’S GOSPEL. Now, we might have had a curmudgeon of a teacher, who loved the women but treated the few males, specially me, with disdain in our class. But he ‘knew his stuff’ and I gained much from the course. I still resent the fact that he hit me with a B+ while I’d been getting straight A s. But then, as an ex Redemptorist, who had terrorised Marists up along the Hudson at Esopus why should he like me any more? Besides, in the Oral he administered, my first experience of such assessment, he was clearly distracted as his wife had just had their second child!!

One of the smash hits in New York that season staggered the critics. There were no props, just one player, she sat on a high stool, in the spotlight and told a 2000 year old story that mesmerised the 600 audience for ninety minutes. It was MARK’S GOSPEL, word for word from the King James Bible. Now, if anything proves the power of story and the genius of ‘Mark’ that surely does.

I enjoyed the research and putting together my major paper. At that stage there was a surge of interest in ‘narrative’ and it impacted on theology and other fields. I was moderately happy with the result and with summer courses on I submitted to the examiners. Tragically, in that soft September, the sky fell in. My brother, Peter, had died in an accident in Perth West Australia. There was never any question in my mind regards returning, no matter what. I really didn’t want to return and so hustled and hassled around to contact the key person, a wonderful woman, and inspirational professor, Gloria Durka, and explain my plight. A few days later, she contacted me to say the paper had been passed and Congratulations.

There was real agony from Perth as the family had been trying to contact one of the daughters Anne who was in Canada at the time, but where, nobody knew. Anne and her two friends, recent nursing graduates had stayed with me a few weeks before while they ‘did’ the Big Apple. Would I be able to contact her? I forget the details now, but it was like a series of good luck, little miracles while I followed up slender threads and absolutely miraculously I was thrilled to hear her at the end of the line. Quick arrangements saw her flying from Montreal while I jetted out of JFK airport, to link up in Los Angeles and together we made that sad, sad flight across to New Zealand and straight onto Perth for Peter’s funeral.

A few years later, a rich opportunity came my way when I attended a short course in Storytelling at a United Church camp along the Lane Cave River in Sydney. Several performers demonstrated their skills and I was able to select the best approach to suit me. Over the years, I have made so much use of such skills. While consultant at Catholic Education I enjoyed giving courses in Mark’s Gospel and then help skill the teachers in better ways of telling stories.

Probably, my most happy application was during some six years at St. Joseph’s College. While I found there were ‘hard yards’ in teaching RE to Yrs 10 and 11, I enjoyed taking the more receptive younger boys from Yrs 7 and 8 in a bedtime story time. It was an initiative that gave them lots of satisfaction as well. Each evening, I would go to one of the dorms, after the boys had showered and were settling down. So, they would gather around, sitting on the floor or on beds and ‘uncle’ Des would cast his story spell. Generally, I would choose some dramatic Bible story and then rework it in such a way that I was an actor in the story. I was David with my twirling sling, or I was Peter, the blusterer who denied his master but made reconciliation by the lake of Galilee with that miraculous draft of fish. Of course, I had to prepare and often rehearsed as I walked along the Great North Walk by the Lane Cove River. It gave me such a ‘buzz’ as I held those twenty boys in the palm of my hand and could see their eyes gleaming as they transported to Bible lands and times and made encounter. Afterwards we’d join in prayer, generally a decade of the rosary. But first, first we needed intentions, people or events to pray for. It took some will power to stop me cracking a smile as this stream of very boyish petitions would be presented:

“My grandmother’s cat has just died and granny is so upset.”

“We’re still in drought out at Warren, we need rain badly.”

“My big brother is facing a big exam at uni.”

Or as we got closer to the main event of the week, the Saturday rugby matches:

“We’re playing Shore this week. Let’s pray that Mary will help our 13Cs to beat them”.

“I’m in the 13As, and it’s a really big game, we must win this game to win the comp.”

And the stories roll on. It’s SBS that uses the motto SIX BILLION AND STILL COUNTING. I have very little resistance or discipline when I know I should be doing something and there’s a good TV program that just demands my attendance. And top movies leave me no peace until I succumb. The bigger the better. Has anyone bettered David Leane’s LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, or DR ZHIVAGO, or BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI?

Telling stories in movie form continues to pursue me.

It all goes back to dad’s story of Beau Geste. What a legacy!

And here I am pouring my soul into telling stories that keep bubbling up in some sort of magic spring. At a deeper level, they are my life story. They are my Bible.

And I always use as an introduction to any course on story, the ancient ‘Confucian’  statement”, thanks to Tony De Mello.

The Master chides his disciples who long for dogmatism rather than his usual diet of stories

You have yet to understand my dears,

That the shortest distance between a human being and Truth

Is a story.